


To the Death / The Rambutan Tree

by T-Boy (t_boy)



Category: Malay Literature pre-20th Century
Genre: Asian Character, Dark Agenda Challenge, Dubious Consent, M/M, Muslim Character, Self-Sacrifice, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_boy/pseuds/T-Boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairly straight-up retelling of the Hang Tuah story, from his first meeting with Hang Jebat, to Jebat's death at Tuah's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Death / The Rambutan Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afrai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrai/gifts).



It is said that when Abraham came to Makkah to finally reunite with his son Ishmael, Allah sent down a star of metal and stone so that neither father nor son would be in want for any iron.

In gratitude of His Generosity, father and son used the metal that Allah granted them to fashion the bolts and raise the foundation of the Ka'aba, to remake the house of worship that Adam had made that would reflect the Glory of Allah in the material world.

But after their labours, they discovered that some of that metal was still left. The metal made its way through routes of providence and coincidence, in the most mundane of forms — from a peasant's dowry to knives to wire to a ship's nails — into the hands of a humble Arab merchant on his way to Malacca.

Who was then set upon by brigands under the hire of the Devaraja of Majapahit, who cut him down, took his ship, and after many years of service, broke down that ship for scrap wood and metal.

But the nature of metals calls upon those who can hear it, and some of those nails made their way to the hands of a keris-maker, who saw what their nature was, and made that metal into a weapon fit for any warrior.

That weapon — a keris, barely a forearm's length — came to be known by many names. We know it as Taming Sari.

This is _almost_ its story.

* * *

Picture a cool morning — the sun has barely been up for an hour, so the day is still cool and fresh, and last night's dew has yet to disappear from the leaves and grass and trees.

There is a path that skirts around a jungle, and a boy of seven years is making his way down it. The boy is happy, content — today is the week of his seventh birthday, and he is heading towards what he considers his birthday present — a tree he had planted three years ago that is now beginning to bear fruit. It isn't much — barely enough for a young boy to eat all by himself — but that's never the point of rambutan trees and little boys. The joy comes from the fact that something _he_ planted — his first memory was of that little seed going into the earth — is now bearing fruit, and that reward is yours and yours alone—

Except that he finally sees the rambutan tree, and there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of fruit. Far less than what he remembers seeing yesterday.

Wait. Are those rambutan seeds? And is that someone in _his _tree?

With a great cry, the boy runs to the rambutan tree, _his _rambutan tree. Using the words he'd once heard his father speaking when he was angry (ones that would earn him a sound thrashing if his father knew), he picks up a rambutan seed and hurls it with all his might to the figure sitting on the branches.

A cry of pain, and then, "What was that for?"

"You! Get off my tree!"

Silence. A moment of reflection. "_Your_ tree?"

"Yes! Push off!"

Another moment of reflection from the figure in the tree. "It doesn't have _your _name on it," the figure says, finally.

The boy can only sputter incoherently, but turns pale when the figure in the tree says, "Besides… how do you know I'm not the tree's _penunggu_?"

It is a fair question. The boy doesn't want to lose his manhood through magic from the Hidden People. But wait…

"_Penunggu_s don't eat fruit!"

"Sure they do," says the figure, calmly, and the boy can hear the figure opening another rambutan and eating it, and the boy nearly loses his mind. That's _his_ fruit! _His_ fruit!

"_Penunggu_s don't go into someone else's tree and eat their fruits! They get offerings. Who's ever heard of a _penunggu_ climbing a tree?"

"Oh," says the figure. Quiet for a bit. "All right, so I'm not a _penunggu_."

"Get down, you _thief! Thief!_"

"No," says the voice nonchalantly. "You'll just beat me up. I don't want that. I'll stay here."

The boy shouts in anger, and starts climbing the tree. He can hear the other figure shout in alarm as well, and there are scrambling sounds as the it begins climbing higher and higher.

The thing is, the boy gets as high as he can before he realizes the branches will not support his weight, and yet the fruit-thief is still above him. Had the boy been less angry, he would realize that either the fruit-thief is _younger _than him, or a great deal smaller. But he doesn't.

He still cannot really see where the thief is. And then he hears his father calling.

"Jebat! Where are you, boy?"

"Abah! Over here!"

As Jebat's father comes into his fruit orchard, he sees his son in a tree, with what looks like another boy in it as well. "You better come down from that, son."

"But Abaaaaah! There's someone stealing from _my_ tree!"

"So? It's not good for the tree, it's too young. Get down or I'll chop the tree down!"

"Abaaaaah!" wails Jebat, who begins scrambling down the tree as fast as he can. "No no no no don't cut down the tree!"

Jebat runs to his father, whose eyes have not left the figure still on the tree itself.

"Well now, young lad," says Jebat's father, finally. "My son is down,and I promise you that he won't touch a hair on your head. Will you come down now, please?"

Silence. "Yes sir," says the voice, its calm and insouciant tones replaced by a quiet, almost begrudging respect.

There is some rustling, and finally the figure drops down from the tree. It is a boy, almost as old as Jebat, but a head-span shorter… and far thinner.  


Gone was the casual, almost insouciant insolence… and there stands a fragile boy, holding on to a bunch of rambutans like it was the most precious thing in the world. Jebat has seen this trick on younger cousins — look at me, I am at your mercy. Look at me, you are about to do a great injustice. Look at me, me, not what I have done!

Angered, Jebat gives a cry, and tries to leap at the boy, but his father is faster — his father grabs him by the arm, and pulls Jebat back.

"Who's that fruit for, son?" asks Jebat's father, in a gentle voice.

"It's for my parents, sir."

"Where are they?"

Silence from the boy. Jebat's father understands why.

"Don't worry, son. If they're in trouble, I'm sure the village would help them."

"They're at the wakaf near the durian orchard near here, sir."

"All right. I'll go see them. Please take those fruits with my compliments, please."

"Abaaaaaah!" That is from Jebat.

"Shush," says the father, to Jebat, before turning back to the boy. "Who is your father, son?"

"Hang Mahmud, sir, from Bentan."

"And your name, son?"

"Tuah, sir."

* * *

It really began with a dream — an old man, dressed in white, appearing in the Sayyid's dreams: at first silent, but then slowly, over the course of the week, telling him the tale that you have heard so far: a star of metal and rock, the rebuilding of the Holy Ka'aba, and the fate of what was left of those scraps.

And the Sayyid had need of such a metal — the Devarajah had decreed that the Sayyid bend his skills in smelting and metalcrafting to forge a gift for him — a fine weapon, fit for a Devarajah. And so, on the day the ship was to be scuttled, the Sayyid spoke some words to those who could listen, and money changed hands — and the nails were his.

Felt like iron did they, melt like iron did they, but rust like iron did they not. Then the Sayyid knew — truly knew — that the metal was heavenly indeed.

* * *

"He's coming," says the lanky boy with pale skin and delicate features.

Jebat nods, quietly, as he crouches behind the bushes outside of Tuah's home. He knows that Kasturi — his new-found friend, and son of a noble from the neighbouring province, is reliable, obedient, and — most importantly — knows how to sit still, watch and keep quiet: unlike the other two boys in their small gang.

He sighs inwardly as he looks at the two other boys.  Lekir and Lekiu: typical down-river kids. Second cousins, but they look like siblings, treat each other like siblings and — yes, this was the important part — fight like siblings. And they can't keep quiet. Even if you ask. Or even if you kick their stupid heads in.

The object of Kasturi's observation — a short, slender boy, has already walked past them, and reached the place where he had earlier hidden a plain cloth sack. As quietly as they can  — Kasturi leading ahead, Lekir and Lekiu trailing behind, and Jebat behind them — they follow Tuah as quietly as they can.

⁂

It really began with the question — what did Tuah do in the hours between the time he had to help at home — which was just after Shuruk, really, after the sun had risen — and when he had to attend madrasah, just after Asar, as the sun began to slip from its position at the roof of the sky?

Jebat didn't know, and frankly to him it was all terribly suspicious. He and his friends — a gang of four — regularly tormented Tuah after madrasah, but could never really figure out where he had gone before lessons began. And Tuah wasn't telling — neither threats of beatings nor the actual beatings could move him. The boy didn't know fear, even though he never fought back.

So beatings did nothing — maybe it was just time to observe.

⁂

It is a hot day, but no real heat ever penetrates the jungle path that Tuah is walking on. The air there is cool, if a little humid, and is filled with the sounds of life — insects, birds, the rustling of plants as animals creep in the undergrowth, the high-pitched buzz that has no real apparent source.

Behind him, Kasturi follows, barely keeping out of sight. The rest of the boys are a little ways back.

After a while, Tuah finally reaches his destination: a cave, just hidden off the jungle path. Putting his sack near the mouth of the cave, Tuah opens it, revealing the fruits that it had contained. Putting it reverently in front of the cave, he kneels, and waits.

And waits. Jebat and the two boys reach Kasturi by then.

"What is he doing?" whispers Jebat to Kasturi.

Kasturi shrugs. "I dunno. He's just been sitting there, kneeling all quiet-like."

"Maybe he's waiting for something to come out," says Lekiu.

"Yeah, but what's with the kneeling? Is he worshipping something or what?" says Lekir.

Jebat decides that he's had enough. Bad enough that he has to deal with these two morons throughout the whole trip, making sure that they don't give away their position by bickering or scuffling, and now Tuah, the strange kid who has stolen all his rambutans, is doing something weird, kneeling in front of a cave like some kind of pilgrim.

"Hoi, Tuah!" he shouts as he approaches the kneeling boy. "So this is where you disappear to every day. What, are you too good for us? Are you worshipping some god in that cave, like some damn idolater?"

Tuah turns around, and looks at Jebat. His face is expressionless, his eyes cool and calm — just like the first day they had met.

"No," says Tuah. "I'm showing respect."

"Respect!" bellows Jebat, amused. "To what, Tuah? Is it a bear that lives in that cave? A nenek kebayan? A ghost? Djinn?"

"None of those things," says Tuah, calmly. _Damn_, thinks Jebat. _Doesn't he feel a least bit afraid?_

"You hear that, friends?" says Jebat, turning to Kasturi, Lekir and Lekiu as they appear from their hiding places. "Tuah here says that he's showing respect to… who is it that you're showing respect to again, Tuah?"

Jebat has turned to look at Tuah again, and his expression changes from one of gloating triumph to one of surprise, and then some fear. For behind Tuah stood a Majapahit warrior.

Silence. The Majapahit warrior is everything good little Malay boys have imagined him to be — tall and fierce, with long hair that reaches past his back, and eyes like fire. A huge, bristling moustache, a stern and merciless expression on his face. Clad in cloth that appears like the kind of cloth only women wear here, and yet muscular and fierce and a little demonic.

"His name is Adiputra, Jebat," says Tuah, still calm, but with a slight smile on his face. "You may have heard of him. He's teaching me silat."

More silence. And then, the warrior speaks, calmly and softly as if to bely his terrible form; his Malay almost perfect apart from a slight Javanese accent.

"Who are these boys, Tuah?"

Tuah turns to his master, and bows his head forward while raising his hands in a gesture of respect.

"Your new students, _Tok Guru_."

* * *

The Sayyid had already gathered the other ingredients to make his weapon — 21 different kinds of metal including the famed star-metal he had rescued from that Arab ship, some from older, powerful but worn-out keris, some from other sources, and some from raw ore itself a hundred and one unguents and oils and powders, each to enchant the weapon during and after its forging. With all this in preparation, and with the Name of God on his lips, he began.

And continued, far longer than any other keris the Sayyid had ever made, using secrets and methods that even he did not know he fully possessed. It was as if a hand was guiding him, unseen.

When he finally was done, the Sayyid held in his hand the weapon he had promised the Devarajah, almost a lifetime ago. The forging itself had taken a toll — the Sayyid had been a hale and hearty man in his middle years: the prime of his life. Now he was old, bent over and almost a husk of his old self. It was as if the forging itself had taken out more than just the Sayyid's time — it was as if it had taken the Sayyid's life, his health.

And for what? A keris, barely a fore-arm's length, the blade itself dull, with only its sinuous shape — 21 _luk,_ each for the type of metal that went into the blade — hinting in any way of the kind of power it had.

On the day that the Sayyid presented the blade to the Devarajah, the Devarajah summoned his advisors and shamans to determine the kind of power the blade had. Divinations were cast and incantations were made, but none could penetrate the veil that surrounded the keris, that kept its powers hidden from view.

The only one who saw what the blade was was Adiputra himself, who did not see the power that was inherent in the blade, but how it changed those who wielded it. And what he saw disturbed him greatly.

He spoke to the Devarajah, who at first ignored his counsel that the blade was dangerous, and then forbade him to speak about the matter. When Adiputra could not — for fear of what the blade could do — the Devarajah banished him from Majapahit lands.

The day Adiputra left the Kingdom of Majapahit to parts unknown was the very same day that the Sayyid passed away, dead before his time.

* * *

Jebat is nervous, tired and irritated.

It has been three months since the Malaccan delegation — the Laksamana, three hulubalangs, and Jebat and Tuah — came to Trowulan Majapahit, the empire's capital — ostensibly to "establish good relations" with the empire, but in actual fact to gauge Majapahit's strength and threat to Malacca.

"It's the sort of thing kingdoms do, boy," said the Bendahara to the 12-year old, before they left. "You send emissaries, presents and stuff, and then, as the honourable guest, be as polite as you can to the hosts — while the hosts then try to be as rude as they can to _you_. The trick is to see how much rudeness they think they can get away with."

Judging by the wealth and splendour of Majapahit, and the fact that the only palace functionaries that they have been allowed to see are common-born, Majapahit thinks it can get away with a lot, really. Three months of nothing, and then a summons _before _Subuh — as if they _knew_ that this would inconvenience the Malaccan delegation — and then, hours of waiting at the palace's garden. Granted, it is a beautiful garden — they are sitting in a raised pavillion surrounded by an artificial lake that is covered in lotus plants — but they have been waiting since dawn, and by the looks of it, it is now just past noon.

Jebat glances at his companion, Tuah, with a mixture of irritation and admiration. Admiration because during these three months, while Jebat has been going silently stir-crazy with boredom, Tuah has been exploring the city, learning everything he can about the place. It is his lack of fear that clinches it — that, and his charming manner and ability to extricate himself from any situation that might be considered uncomfortable. While Jebat and the other members of the other delegation feel the _alieness _of the city, and react more or less the same way — by keeping to themselves, and rarely straying from their quarters — Tuah just… goes.

When they landed, the only person who could really understand Javanese was the Laksamana himself, who had been around and could converse in it after a fashion. But within three weeks, Tuah had learnt the rudiments of the language, and by six he had mastered it to match the Laksamana in comprehending it. By now? Not only is his mastery of the many languages of Majapahit better than the Laksamana, but apparently he has learned more — he has managed to figure out the language used in the temples here, which was _not_ Javanese by any stretch of the imagination.

Jebat sighs in irritation, because despite his skill and lack of fear, Jebat has never really figured out Tuah. It is as if he is incredibly talented in many things, and yet there exist gaps in Tuah's… understanding. Like it isn't necessary to constantly press for advantage when they spar, both verbally and physically. Like it isn't necessary for him to be polite _all the time_. Or immediately go for something without thinking if it is appropriate, right or wise.

⁂

Jebat jolts out of his reverie when he realizes that there is a change in the delegation; someone is coming.

There is a crowd of people approaching the walkway towards the pavilion — at first Jebat can't make out who is in the centre of the crowd. With a swish of batik, the retinue parts, and he sees the Devarajah for the first time.

In some ways, the Devarajah resembles Adiputra, his silat master — the high cheekbones, the proud bearing. But in others, the Devarajah himself has finer features, as if to differentiate himself from the fierce and taciturn Adiputra. Instead of a simple batik sarong, the king is dressed in finery that would make the Sultan look like a cheap merchant. The batik itself is edged with gold and silver thread, while he wears more jewelry than some of the women in Malacca. The effect, Jebat realizes, is a mix of delicate androgyny edged with a single message: do not tangle with us, for we are mighty.

As if to underscore the fact, one of the bodyguards of his retinue catches Jebat's — and everyone's attention: Taming Sari. Where Adiputra was wiry and quick, Taming Sari is strong and stocky. Where Adiputra was stoic, using that to mask his compassion and love for his students, Taming Sari is anger and rage all the way — and it is clear that he takes joy in victory and glorifying his opponent's defeat. Adiputra had not only gained a reputation for being a great warrior, but also a great teacher, Taming Sari had gained his reputation by making sure that none could bear his tutelage.

Jebat and the rest of the retinue sit quietly as the Laksamana and the Prime Minister — a man called Patih Gadjah Mada — go through the long, interminable introductions. He notices that the Devarajah never addresses the delegation directly — he speaks to the Prime Minister in what Jebat assumes to be the palace language, and the Prime Minister replies back in a language the Laksamana can understand. He finds this fascinating for about fifteen minutes, before his attention wanders. It is only jolted back when he realizes that the Laksamana is looking at him and Tuah.

"The Devarajah would like to know how… I believe the phrase is, "the traitor Adiputra" is faring in Malacca," says Tuah.

"Oh," says Jebat, momentarily flustered. "He's doing all right, I suppose. Doing well."

Tuah nods, and then, to everyone's surprise, addresses the Prime Minister in what sounds like the palace language.

The Prime Minister looks shocked for a minute — it is as if he is hearing a rat stand up and recite poetry. The Devarajah's expression — which, initially, was one of boredom that bordered very near to sneering insolence, perks up, amused.

The Laksamana is shocked as well. "Where did you learn how to speak like _that_?"

Tuah shrugs. "Here and there."

The Devarajah laughs, amused. The Prime Minister tries to speak further, but the Devarajah gestures him to be quiet. "Now, now, old friend," he says, speaking in slightly-accented Malay, "Let us end the charade. It seems Malacca has sent us someone _interesting._"

Turning towards Tuah, the Devarajah continues. "So, young boy," he says, amusement playing on his face, "You are presumably Adiputra's student?"

"I am, your Majesty," says Tuah, raising his hands to salute the Devarajah. "Me and my blood-brother, Jebat."

"Ho ho! Such youngsters! How far are you in your studies, young boy?"

Tuah shrugs. Jebat sees that Patih Gadjah Mada's eyebrows beetle in disapproval: such insolence!

"I have still much to learn, Majesty," said Tuah, ignoring Patih Gadjah Mada.

"Wisely said, boy," says the Devarajah. "Now, let me ask you — would you care to show us what your master has deigned to teach you?"

Tuah nods, and the Devarajah claps his hands in delight. "Excellent! We shall have a duel; the better to show us how much you've learned. Choose an opponent, young boy, and he and you shall fight until someone draws first blood. Is this fair to you?"

To everyone's surprise, and Jebat's horror, Tuah shakes his head. The Devarajah looks less than amused, and then says, "Well then! What do you suggest?"

"Begging a thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but I already know who I shall wish to fight, and it is not until first blood that I desire; it is to the death."

"Oh ho!" says the Devarajah, "Who is the unfortunate wretch, young boy?"

Tuah says nothing, and points to Taming Sari.

⁂

"Have you lost your _mind_?" says Jebat. "You're going to get killed!"

Tuah says nothing as he prepares for the duel.

"Look," Jebat says desperately, "You know we're supposed to find out a way to show Majapahit who's boss, but this is… well this is insane! You've heard the stories! He's Majapahit's greatest warrior! He's killed _hundreds _of people! No weapon can hurt him!"

Silence. "That's not true, actually," says Tuah. "Adiputra mentioned why, remember?"

"Yes, _well_," says Jebat, exasperated. "The keris, the keris. But no way he's going to part with the keris in this fight. He'll want to use it!"

"We'll see."

⁂

The other members of the delegation have moved into an inner courtyard, and are served drinks and refreshments. The Devarajah himself is seated on an opulent hardwood throne, and is waited upon by servants.

Taming Sari is making preparations for the upcoming duel as well, when Jebat comes in with Tuah. Instead of the _baju melayu _and _tengkolok_ that he had worn into the palace, he is now dressed in a pair of simple, trouser-length leggings and a _kain_ _pelikat_ that is wound around his waist, in which two keris — one his own, the other belonging to his father — are sheathed.

"So, young boy," says the Devarajah, "Do you have any last words before the fight begins?"

"Only one thing, your Majesty," says Tuah, calmly.

"Go on."

"Begging a thousand pardons, Your Majesty, but I have heard tales of Taming Sari, and his prowess in battle. It gives me great honor to be able to test my life against his in this battle, but…"

The Devarajah cocks his eyebrow, "But…?"

"…I have heard rumors that his battles have all been won by sorcery, Your Majesty. That he has, on his person, a keris that grants him invulnerability to weapons. Were he to go into the duel now with it, I am afraid of what others will say of him, Your Majesty. Your pardon, Majesty."

Silence. And for a minute, Jebat is struck by the audacity of Tuah's plan. Tuah is, even after five years of training with Adiputra, shorter than the average height for children his age. But it will only take someone who is familiar with Tuah, or has fought with him before, to know that the fragile appearance is just that — appearance. Among Adiputra's apprentices, Tuah is the fastest, the most adept with the keris, and — and this is very important — the most vicious. Do not let weaknesses show in front of Tuah — he will take that weakness, and use it to _kill_ you.

_And no one else in the courtyard knows it better than I do_, realized Jebat.

Jebat knows that Taming Sari is thinking — while he is a fierce warrior, he maintains a veneer of honor and decency any warrior worth their pride would maintain. Taking his prized weapon and using it against a young, wet-behind-the-ears stripling — even a foolish one, would be the epitome of dishonor; even more so when the stripling _knows _that the weapon confers to Taming Sari an invulnerability to all weapons. _Look at the great warrior_, he could almost hear, _Needing his precious weapon to slit the throat of a young virgin who had not even passed his majority yet!_

_But you need that weapon,_ thinks Jebat, thinking of Taming Sari.

Tuah against Taming Sari with the keris will be certain death for Tuah. Tuah against Taming Sari _without_ the keris?

Only Allah knows.

* * *

The keris itself had been passed from the hands of the greatest Majapahit warriors for a long, long time. While the invulnerability it granted to the wielder was an open secret, there was another, hidden gift that the blade had: it was a recorder of souls.

Not of souls of the victims that fell to the keris, but of the wielders of the weapon themselves. And as the keris was passed on to more and more Majapahit warriors, who either perished due to their own folly or because of the whims of the Devarajah, the iron in the keris took on the essence of those warriors, and granted each warrior who currently wielded the weapon the counsel of all the souls stored within that the metal itself. The last warrior who wielded the keris would be the one with the most dominant personality, but all souls left their mark on the weapon.

It was not long before the personality that inhabited the blade itself became the epitome of Majapahit warrior-dom — brutal, uncompromising, and vicious. And it was in Taming Sari that these traits became most manifest.

And that really was Taming Sari's downfall. Because when he saw the young stripling who _dared_ to challenge him — _him!_ The greatest warrior in all of Majapahit! He thought that all the boy was seeking for was to find a way to humiliate and dishonor him. In his rage, egged by the souls of the other warriors in the keris, he did the one thing that doomed him to a death by Tuah's hands.

He put the keris aside.

* * *

Jebat stands on the deck, looking at the receding lights, and feels himself relax. They had made it.

Not that the there wasn't any reason that things would go wrong, or that they would get caught; after all, aren't they a trading mission, envoy of the Kingdom of Malacca, to their brother-state, the Kingdom of Pahang? Is it not an opportunity for Sultan Muzaffar Shah to introduce to his royal cousin his "acquisitions" — from the latest gifts he had received from the traders as far as Arabia and India, to his latest darling, a princess of China?

Not that that was initially the Sultan's idea, after all. But Hang Li Po had been insistent, and Jebat suspects that His Majesty wanted her out of his hair, at least for the time being.

Speaking of which, he now hears Hang Li Po's voice, calling out Jebat's name. _I suppose it's time_, he thinks, tiredly, as he stretches and starts heading below-decks, _might as well get it over with_.

"Aaa-ah, there you are, naughty boy!"

Jebat blushes. Li Po is twenty to Jebat's eighteen, but she treats him like a little brother, to be bossed around incessantly. Fair enough, he supposes — she _is_ the wife of the Sultan, but…

"I still don't understand why you need me for this, my Lady," he protests feebly.

"Because you need four players, boy!" says Li Po, as she leads Jebat to the mah-jongg table, where he sees that the other players have been seated — the Captain of the Guard, and a girl he does not recognize, who is barely fifteen.

"All right, but what about the Khadam?" says Jebat, referring to the palace's eunuch.

"He learnt his lesson pretty quick," says Li Po, smugly.

"The nakhoda?", said Jebat, referring to the captain of the ship.

"Oh, he disapproves. Big Qur'an-thumper. Says that it's 'gambling'".

"Well, we are playing for money…"

"Small money, boy! Allah is All-Forgiving and All-Merciful."

"All right, all right, don't start. Tuah?"

"Hm. Had him sit down for a game, actually."

"What, he's like Khadam and won't play with you any more?"

"No," says Li Po, making a sour face. "He's the opposite, actually. I lost _all_ my money on him. Cheeky bugger."

"Oh. So it's me."

"Yes, it's you. Now shut up and sit down and stop whining. Aren't you supposed to be The Great Warrior?"

"_A _great warrior," sighs Jebat, as he settles down on his appointed seat, nodding politely to the other two players.

"So! Everybody knows each other?" said Li Po.

"Er…"

"Um…"

"Hai-_ya_! Why must I do _everything_?," says Li Po, exasperated. "Jebat, you know the Captain, and the girl is Wangi, from Tun Teja's retinue. Wangi, you know the Captain, and this is Jebat, one of His Majesty's 'golden boys'. There, satisfied?"

Jebat looks at Wangi and shrugs. As they shuffle the tiles and start the game, Li Po eyes Jebat, finally saying, "So, where's your best buddy?"

Jebat grimaces. He knows what is coming. "He says he's tired, so he's gone to get some sleep."

"Waaa!" says Li Po, mock-impressed, "Big warrior like him gone to bed so early? What, he's already talked to Her Ladyship already, told her what happened?"

"Yes," says Wangi shyly, cringing a little when the others look at her. "Um, milady was rather upset this evening, and, uh, well…"

"Hmm," says Li Po. "Thought you were released from duty a _little_ too early."

"Sorry, My Lady," squeaks Wangi.

"Feh, don't worry about it," says Li Po. "I can't stand ceremony myself. Anyway! That means your friend already broke the smelly egg, eh?"

Jebat nods. "Did it first thing after the ship set sail."

"Waa—ah," exclaimed Li Po. "Stone-cold, your friend!"

Wangi is a little upset at the way the conversation is going. "But… when I saw him court Her Ladyship, I thought _he_ loved her!"

Jebat looks at Wangi directly, who blushes and turns away from at the attention of the warrior. "Did he say anything about him loving her, or wanting to run away with her?"

"He _must _have," exclaims Wangi, more than a little flustered, "He—"

"The exact words?" says Li Po, a little more seriously than before.

"No-o…"

"Then he didn't," says Jebat, shortly, his eyes returning to his tiles. "Tuah can be the most charming person in the room, and the one with the sweetest words, but I've never known him to show any love to anyone… not even his parents. Not even people he's known for _years_."

"You mean he _lied_—" begins Wangi, tears in her eyes.

"No! Not _lie_. Tuah is honest, upright, honorable, and a _good man_," says Jebat, his voice trembling slightly. "It's just that… he doesn't understand what affection is."

Li Po stays silent, and continues looking at Jebat throughout the rest of the game.

⁂

After the game, Jebat excuses himself and goes back to stare at the stars and the horizon, as the ship sails to the sea on its way to Johore. He stands there, listening to the wind, until Li Po's voice breaks his reverie.

"Oi."

"Oi yourself, old woman," says Jebat, smiling in the dark.

Li Po snorts. "I like you, little boy, but don't push your luck. I'm sleeping with your boss."

"Yes, yes," says Jebat shortly, and he hears Li Po lean on the ship's railing, and join him in the stargazing. They stand there, together, listening to the sea and watching the deep black sky.

"So…" begins Li Po, "How long have you loved him?"

Jebat blushes furiously. "Was I that obvious?"

"Na," says Li Po, amused. "The Captain didn't spot it, I think Wangi almost did. So, how long?"

"Three, four years."

"And you were serious about what you said down below?"

Silence from Jebat for a few moments. "Ya," he says finally. "Yeah, I was. I've known him since I was seven."

"Really? And he seemed like such a nice boy."

"And he _is_. Nice, honest, reliable, will never break his word, and loyal. It's just that… he can't love you back," says Jebat. "I think he knows that he's supposed to, at least to his parents, or his siblings. But he can't even manage that. He can be wonderful, he can be fun to be with, and he is a _great_ brother and a friend… but there's like something missing behind his eyes."

"Really?" says Li Po. "Like what?"

"I don't know," says Jebat, "Probably a lack of certainty. If the Sultan ordered Tuah to kill you, you know that he'd do it anyway, without hesitation. If the Sultan ordered him to cut out Tun Teja's heart and present it to him in a gilt box, he'd do it. And he'd not feel the slightest remorse either way."

"Brr," says Li Po. "Scary. You're certainly morbid tonight, Great Warrior."

"Sorry," says Jebat, wearily. "It's just that I was with Tuah this evening, you see? With Tun Teja."

"And it's hit you."

"And it's hit me."

* * *

The colloquium of souls that the keris now held — a keris that all now called Taming Sari, after its late, unlamented owner — did not feel too much concern when Taming Sari fell into Tuah's hands. What was there to worry about? All they needed to do was poison the young warrior's soul, get him to betray his Sultan, and thus Majapahit's greatest threat would be assuredly destroyed.

To the perspective of the dead within the keris, human beings were as if forests — each with their own fauna of thoughts, feelings, emotions and impulses, each interacting with one another and all, eventually, from a distance, merging into one element of green.

They had expected no different from Tuah, but instead of a forest, what they got was a desert.

No life. No feeling. No regrets. A bleak, blasted wasteland. Emptiness.

And it would remain that way, until the blade was given to another.

* * *

_He comes_.

Jebat awakes from his sleep as the voices that had been plaguing his existence since that cursed day when the thrice-damned Sultan had sent Tuah away to be executed begin to clamor for his attention again.

"Who comes?" he snaps, his voice jerking one of the palace concubines that lay beside him in troubled sleep. "Who comes?"

"No one, My Lord—"

"I wasn't talking to you," Jebat says, voice cold and unfeeling, brutal hatred suffusing his soul. Ever since Taming Sari was given to him, the souls in the blade had done their very best to corrupt him — cajoling, mocking and harrying him, changing his feelings of outrage over Tuah's injustice into an all-consuming rage that killed, maimed and murdered, to the point where the Sultan had fled like a cur, tail between his legs.

The Sultan still lived in his manor in Malacca town, still had enough force to maintain order within it… but the Palace was Jebat's, now. And all within it.

Standing up, and dressing, he leaves the bedchamber without a word, ignoring the cowering servants and the cowed chambermaids, as he walks to the entrance of the palace.

And stops as he sees who it is who has come. It can't be. They said he was dead!

But there Tuah is, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading towards the main entrance. There he is, tall and proud and strong and upright.

The sky, already dark and brooding to begin with, begins to rumble with thunder. A storm is coming.

And there Tuah is, saying these words:

"Jebat! Come down if you are a man!"

There he is! He isn't dead! The Sultan didn't kill him!

_And yet there he is, _whisper the voices, _Doing the bidding of that fool_.

Jebat laughs. He laughs at the folly of it all, of loving a man who would not — _could _not love him back, loving a man who follows the commands of a fool who does not deserve to command.

And the laughter turns to a single cry of anguish, as he leaps down into the fray, Taming Sari drawn, the voices in his head screaming out for Tuah's blood.

⁂

Jebat rolls aside, and faces Tuah again.

The air is hot and muggy, literally bursting with moisture. The storm comes closer.

It is clear that Taming Sari lends its full strength in fighting Tuah. Had Jebat not held the blade tight, the blade would have flown out and stabbed Tuah, instantly ending the fight.

As it is, Jebat strikes with the strength of all the souls within that blade — the strength of twenty of Majapahit's best. And the tales of the blade are true — Tuah cannot touch him with any of the weapons in his arsenal.

Already Tuah has dropped his father's kris, blade snapped in two by Jebat's adamant-hard skin. And Tuah did not fare well in the last encounter — he holds his left arm uncomfortably, as if it is either broken or the shoulder dislocated.

_KILL HIM!_, bellow the souls within Taming Sari, _Why do you hesitate?_

Why does he hesitate?

⁂

He had fought like a wild beast, like a demon with nothing to lose, like someone intent in expiating some horrible thing within himself.

But it wasn't his fault that Tuah had been sent to his death. It wasn't his fault that the Sultan was vain and foolish and listened to the counsel of toadies over the counsel of wise men, good men like the Bendahara or any of the warriors within the Sultan's employ, or any of the those was supposed to have his ear — from Hang Li Po, who now had her own community in Bukit Cina, to any of Jebat's other brothers. It wasn't his fault that Tuah was being sent, like a good assassin, to expiate the Sultan's foolish sin. Like a good guard dog, like a good keris flying from its sheath—

The first few drops of rain begin. Small they are, barely noticeable… but like a dam close to bursting, they are heralds to a great storm.

Something causes Jebat to turn his head, to look at the Palace.

And he sees the faces watching him.

_Perhaps they saw Tuah's execution as a great injustice_, says a small, quiet voice, one that suddenly drowns out the clamor of the voices within Taming Sari. _But they don't see that now. What they see is you._

_And they fear you_.

⁂

If the sky were a great dam, it would be groaning with the pent-up pressure of all the water it's holding back. Instead of the groan of timber, it is the almost-constant rumble of thunder which mirrors Jebat's turbulent state of mind.

_So what now?_ thinks Jebat, as Tuah lunges after him again, and Jebat lets Tuah's keris blow glance off his skin, again not making a mark.

Tuah will not stop — at the worst, he will retreat, and come back again. And again. Until he has discharged the Sultan's oath, or until he perished.

And, as deep as he knows that Tuah is unable to reciprocate, Jebat loves the man. Had come to love him despite Tuah's inability to know what love is, to even _see _what love is.

_Tuah may be the Sultan's puppet_, thinks Jebat sadly, fending off another blow, _but I cannot strike him down_.

It looks like a permanent stalemate: one man unable to kill the other, and the other unwilling. It would go on until either Tuah fell dead from exhaustion or Jebat accidentally killed Tuah, or—

And then the answer came in a flash.

⁂

Calmly, Jebat points Taming Sari away from Tuah. The blade squirms, as if knowing what Jebat is planning.

_Pointless theatrics_, a part of Jebat thinks contemptuously. With all his might, he then stabs Taming Sari to the ground.

It would have damaged an ordinary blade, but Taming Sari remains un-bent, its edge not dulled. But despite the unmarked blade, the souls within it give one last scream of anger and despair that reverberate in Jebat's head. Jebat feels a part of himself leave and enter the keris, and then they are gone.

The blade vibrates, and then is still, having no soul to feed on, no power to tap.

"I'm tired of these games, Tuah," Jebat says, putting as much contempt as he can in his voice. "I've always known that Taming Sari would have given you too much of an advantage in any fight."

"But here I am, now master of the blade, and I choose to no longer wield it," he continues, drawing the other keris on his belt — his father-in-law's keris, he reflectes sadly, thinking of Dang Wangi, thinking of someone who loved him, dearly.

"Now it's just you and me, old friend. Skill versus skill. To the death — always your favourite phrase."

"I remember," says Tuah, simply, but his gaze never leaves Jebat's.

"Well? What do you say?"

Nothing from Tuah but a fractional nod. A nod, and a subtle shifting position.

Jebat smiles. As Tuah charges towards him, he opens his arms as if to greet an old friend.

And the dam finally breaks.

⁂

"Tuah…"

Tuah cradles Jebat, who lies dying, his life-blood seeping away from the wound in his gut.

_It seems so hard to see_, thinks Jebat, as he looks at Tuah's face. The palace and their surroundings gone, covered in a curtain of water — a rainstorm like no other.

"Tuah," repeats Jebat. Weaker this time.

"I'm here, Jebat," says Tuah, and Jebat, surprised, detects a note of sadness in his old friend's voice. "I'll always be here."

"No you won't, you silly fool," says Jebat. "I'm going on a trip that you can't follow, old friend."

Tuah smiles, sadly. _Are those tears, old friend_, thought Jebat, _or is it the rain?_

"Listen," says Jebat, "I need you to take care of Dang Wangi for me, please."

"She's in the palace?"

"No," says Jebat, coughing up a bit of blood. "Sent her away. Knew it was too dangerous. And I didn't like what the voices were saying."

"Voices?"

"You never heard them?" says Jebat, incredulously. And then he laughs, before the coughing starts again. "I must be going mad, then. Or maybe they were right. You're a desert to them, Tuah. Nothing to feed on. On me… plenty."

"I don't—"

"Listen!" says Jebat. "Take care of Dang Wangi, please. On your honor."

"I promise, Jebat."

"Promise she won't come to harm, damn you," says Jebat, steel in his voice. "I'm dying here. I know your damn tricks."

"I promise to protect her, Jebat. And your sons."

"Huh," says Jebat. "You surprise me every time, you know that? Anyway, Taming Sari's yours. Always has been, anyway."

"Jebat…"

But Jebat will speak to Tuah no more.

⁂

A bright light. Desert, as far as the eye could see.

Jebat did not know where he was, and wondered briefly, if this was hell. After all, he did commit suicide, didn't he?

But the air was dry, and the sun, despite being high in the sky, did not feel hot. It was as if he was in a dream.

He looked at the horizon, and saw some cliffs in the distance. As if following some unspoken command, Jebat walked towards them.

The walk in itself was odd — it felt as if it took no time at to pass that great distance, but he remembered every step. And there he was, standing at the shadow of these cliffs…

And saw an old Arab man, sitting on a boulder. Waving at him.

"Am I dead?" he asked the old man.

The old man smiled, shrugged, and said, "Been in here for a long time, son. I see only dead people."

"Is this hell?"

The old man laughed. "First time anyone's asked me that question! Not as far as I know."

"But this can't be heaven, then," said Jebat, finally. "I don't remember heaven being described as a great big desert."

"No, you're not yet in the afterlife," said the old man. "As far as I can see it, this place is supposed to be someone's soul."

"What?"

"You heard me right," said the old man. "The soul of the current wielder of the keris."

"Taming Sari?"

"That's what it's called now?" asked the old man. "Figures. That's the name of the last person who came here, too."

Jebat nodded. The old man looked at Jebat from top to bottom and said, "Kingdom of Malacca, are you? Terribly rude of me. _Salaam __aleykum_, brother. My name's Sayyid Othman Ibnu Ghazali, but most people called me the Sayyid when I was alive. Blacksmith and former Empu in the Majapahit Kingdom. I made the keris that's delayed you to your just reward, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Er. _Alaykum Salaam_. Hang Jebat. I used to be a warrior with the court of Muzaffar Shah."

"Can't be any good if you died wielding… Taming Sari, was it now?"

Jebat shrugged. The memory remained, but it was fuzzy, abstract.

"Anyway!" said the Sayyid, "I'm not sure what happened to the other guys who were here. It's just you and me, and I suspect that you might be the one who was responsible for this."

Puzzled, Jebat followed the old man as he led him to a cleft in the rock face, and into a little gorge carved into the wall of the cliff itself. In there, there was a little spring, with water, barely trickling out of it.

"Y'see, when we were here last," said the Sayyid, "There was no water in this place; no tree or plant either; not like a lot of other souls I've been in. When we came back, to my great surprise, I found this."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, son," said the old man. "But this wasn't the only thing I found. There's one other thing. You might know something about it?"

Jebat shrugged, and followed the old man out of the gorge, following the little trickle that the spring caused, into a shallow depression that caused the water to form a small puddle. And besides the puddle, a small sapling — one that Jebat recognized, from his earliest memories.

"A rambutan tree," he breathed, hoarsely.


End file.
